


Nothing by Halves

by moonblossom



Series: Prompt Fills, Remixes, Works inspired by others [24]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Competence Kink, Doctor John, F/M, Fluff, Knife Wound, M/M, Multi, Nurse Mary, OT3, sutures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1445317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a good thing John and Mary are always prepared, because dealing with Sherlock is never boring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing by Halves

**Author's Note:**

> For [jocelee](http://jocelee.tumblr.com), who won a spot in my tumblr giveaway and prompted me with the following:  
>  _I’m not sure how specific you want the prompt but something with John and maybe Mary in their medical capacities. Maybe they have to patch up Sherlock, or each other, I dunno._
> 
> nb: T rating for vague description of a bloody wound and John stitching Sherlock up in a decidedly unsterile alleyway, if this sort of thing makes you uncomfortable please skip this one :)

John lets out a grunt as he knees the thug in the stomach. The body falls to the ground with a satisfying thud, the bloody knife clattering out onto the damp tarmac. John spins on his heel, catching the fluttering hem of Sherlock's coat as he ducks down the alley.

"Mary!" He points in Sherlock's direction and she nods, darting in after him. John dusts himself off, zip-ties the crook's hands behind his back -- a nicely wrapped present for Lestrade, whenever he finally manages to get his arse here -- and follows Mary.

Sherlock's leaning against one wall, breathing heavily. He's a little pale, but none the worse for wear. John raises an eyebrow at him.

"Fine. I'm fine." His voice belies his words though, trembling slightly and higher pitched than usual. On anyone else it wouldn't have been noticeable, but John's so familiar with him that it rings out like a bell. Apparently John's not alone.

"Sherlock," Mary's voice is scolding but gentle. "You know I can tell when you're fibbing."

That's when John sees it -- the sparkle of fresh blood catching what little light there is in the alley. Dripping down from Sherlock's cuff, trickling down his hand. He grins, wobbly and sarcastic, and sinks to the ground.

John runs to him, peels him out of that infernal bloody coat. The knife has torn through the thick wool of the Belstaff, the thin cotton of Sherlock's pale grey shirt, and if the blood stain is anything to go by, a significant chunk of his forearm.

"Christ, Sherlock, you never do anything by halves, do you?"

"'M pretty sure this one wasn't my fault," Sherlock whines, his voice unsteady.

Squatting down, John shrugs out of his coat and rolls up his own sleeves. Weakly, Sherlock holds out his arm for inspection, clearly realising there's no point in arguing now. John sighs, staring at his own hands and wishing he had some sort of antiseptic.

Behind him, he hears Mary rummaging around in her handbag. As if reading his thoughts, she pulls out a pile of sterile cottons and a bottle of benzalkonium chloride, along with a pair of nitrile gloves. He smiles gratefully.

"You're a marvel, you know that?"

She grins smugly and continues rummaging. "Mm, I know. Never hurts to hear it confirmed though," she says. "Especially not from someone so handsome."

Sherlock coughs and rolls his eyes. "I'll thank you two to stop being nauseating while I'm bleeding out in a filthy alley."

John snaps on the gloves and tips the bottle onto one of the sterile cottons, chuckling. "Stop being so dramatic, you. It's barely a scratch."

Mary holds a torch in her teeth, angling it onto Sherlock's arm as John cleans carefully around the wound, biting his lip each time Sherlock hisses in discomfort; it becomes painfully obvious that it's more than just a scratch. He frowns, pulling the two jagged sides of the cut together.

"Fuck."

"Here, John? Can't you wait until we get home?" The joke is brittle, muffled around the torch handle in her mouth, but John is grateful to Mary for trying to diffuse the situation somewhat. Still holding the wound together, he turns to her.

"I don't suppose you've got any sutur--" He blinks as she holds up her hands. While he'd been cleaning Sherlock off, she's gone and prepared a long, curved needle that glitters in the darkness. John wants to kiss the distorted grin right off her face, but now isn't the time.

"What else have you got in that magic bag?" John accepts the needle gratefully as Mary squats down on Sherlock's other side, the torch settled in her hand. She takes Sherlock's good hand between her free one and squeezes.

"Lots of things. Tampons, a Walther PPK, a couple of pens, that earring I thought I lost the other day..." She squeezes Sherlock's hand again as he winces, John's needle slicing through his tender flesh. "Unfortunately, no anaesthetic."

“Remind me never to mock the size of your handbag again.” John says, fondly.

“Promises, promises.” Mary grins.

“Far be it for me to break up this touching moment, but…” Sherlock coughs weakly, thrusting his chin out towards to the seeping wound in his arm. Mary clucks and rolls her eyes, stroking his shoulder soothingly.

John breathes as steadily as he can, gritting his teeth against the determined but pained noises Sherlock's making, against the fluttering in his stomach. He hates causing Sherlock pain, even if it is necessary. Especially after everything they've been through together, everything that's led up to this unorthodox triad.

Five sutures, six, seven, and he's done. They're ragged and uneven, and the scar isn't going to be pretty, but John is no stranger to emergency surgery in messy situations, and Sherlock will probably show the damned thing off as some sort of badge of pride. He pulls the last knot tight and Mary clips the thread neatly, wiping Sherlock's arm down with another sterile cloth.

Quickly and efficiently, she cleans him off with a bottle of saline dug out from the depths of her magical handbag, and then wraps his arm in gauze. Sherlock reaches out with his free hand, but with Mary occupied it finds empty air. John pulls his gloves off and grabs it, and Sherlock grins lopsidedly at him.

Mary stands up, admiring her handiwork. The gauze is smooth and flat. Sherlock's shirt was a total write-off and she's even cut the ragged end of the sleeve off at the elbow. The bandage and the torn shirt give him a bit of a rakish air, and he preens, as if reading John's thoughts.

"C'mon then, let's get you home." John stands, holding his other hand out to Sherlock and helping him up. Mary drapes the ruined coat over Sherlock's shoulders and John pretends not to notice she has to get up on her toes to do it. She scowls playfully at him, his ruse clearly ineffective. Sherlock rolls his eyes again, but he's smiling. He leans heavily on John, tired from shock and blood loss, and John wraps one arm around his broad back. He feels Mary's thin arm below his own, adding further support.

"That..." Sherlock says hesitantly. "That was good, um." His voice is ragged with something other than stress, other than fatigue, and it hits John low in the belly. Mary doesn't even try to disguise her laughter this time.

"Mm. He is fun to watch when he's being all... doctorly. Isn't he?"

Sherlock swallows audibly and nods. John reaches around and squeezes his hip gently before prodding Mary in the ribs. "I think he might need a proper sponge bath when we get home, Nurse Watson."

"Certainly, but he's a temperamental patient. I'll need all the assistance I can get."

Groaning, Sherlock sags heavily between them, not even attempting to argue. John bites his cheek, trying to calm himself at least until they get home. Slowly, carefully, they pick their way out of the alley, only to find Lestrade escorting the half-conscious thug into the back of a car.

"All right?" His eyes glance down to the three of them intertwined the way they are, to Sherlock's bandaged arm cradled carefully across his chest, and his brow furrows.

"Oh Greg, don't worry. He's in good hands." Mary says, nodding seriously. John coughs, trying to mask the inappropriate noise he's making at the visuals. Surely the idea of his wife washing his bloodied best friend shouldn't excite the three of them as much as it does.

Sherlock seems to find something about that statement utterly hilarious too, because he bursts out laughing. John caves in, giggles, and pokes him in the ribs, gently.

"We just need to get him washed and fed and into his pyjamas. It's been a long day. Someone will come by and do the paperwork tomorrow."

Pacified, the DI nods, gesturing for them to go ahead. Mercifully, there is a cab waiting not far outside the tape Lestrade is setting up, and the three of them tumble into it gratefully.

"Baker Street," Sherlock coughs out as John and Mary's hands both find their ways to his thighs. "And hurry, please. I'm not feeling well."


End file.
